Let Go
by katinki
Summary: COMPLETE. Idiom / to let someone or something go / to allow someone or something to escape or go free. When you've tried everything else, sometimes letting go is all that's left - the only choice. Sometimes they come home; sometimes they don't. A story of addiction, told from both sides. AH.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **S. Meyer owns Twilight. I just like playing around in her sandbox.**  
><strong>

I'll be upfront and say that this isn't polished. It's more of a sketch or an outline of a long story that I refuse / don't have time to write. I spent no time editing it. It's also not been beta'd.

I've divided this up into 13 chapters because I wanted each mini-scene to stand on its own. This isn't a ploy for reviews - seriously, read and review however you see fit. I'm happy with any feedback you choose give.

**Warning:** I promise nothing. Read at your own discretion.

* * *

><p>In the pretty green suburbs of Chicago, tucked away in an elegant two-story home, a man and a woman fight.<p>

"What have you done!" she screams. "How could you!"

Blinking away stinging tears, Carlisle holds his wife, silently suffering her anguished blows. He doesn't care that he'll have bruises tomorrow where her fists fall. He lets her vent. He takes whatever she dishes out. In a way, it's a welcome kind of pain. Bruises are something he can deal with at least. They heal. They fade. In time, it's like they never were.

She's been crying on and off for a solid half hour, going back and forth between needing his comfort and cursing his name. It's confusing and he's angry, but all he really wants to do is curl up beside her and hold her and allow himself the same luxury of tears. Because he needs his wife right now just as much as she needs him. He's just as lost, just as terrified, and his insides churn with the same misery of not knowing what tomorrow will bring.

But one of them has to be strong right now, he argues. So he just hugs her tightly to his chest, kissing her soft brown hair, running a hand down the curve of her spine. And he lets her cry and cry, until she can't anymore.

It's a conversation that Carlisle knows by rote. He and Esme have lived this life for so long – years – an endless cycle of hope and disappointment, dreams and nightmares. Someone had to break it. This is the only thing left to try.

"What will happen to him now? Where is he going to go?" Her knuckles dig into his ribs.

Carlisle squeezes his eyes shut. "I don't know. Just… he can't come here anymore."

"He's my baby. I can't… I can't let this happen. We're supposed to protect him!"

"He's twenty-three years old!" he snaps. "You can't keep doing this. He's killing you. He's killing us both."

Softer now, Esme whispers, her exhaustion eating through the anger, turning it into grief, "Where did we go wrong?"

"It's all your fault." Her voice breaks, searching for solid ground. "You weren't here enough. If you had been…"

"I–"

"Carlisle… What do we do?"

He hugs her tighter, questioning every moment, every decision, everything from the past five years. "We pray."


	2. Chapter 2

Forty miles away, in a crumbling old tenement in one of the bad parts of town, a younger man sits, slumped down on the floor against the wall.

The belt around his bicep cuts deeply, and he can feel the twinge of numbness in his fingers when he tries to flex his hand. He's done this countless times before, but there's always that moment of hesitation, and he can't help but stare at the angry, red welts that decorate the inside of his arm. Sometimes he misses. It's not enough to stop him, however. Nothing ever is.

When the needle slides home, Edward gasps from the razor sharp pleasure-pain that floods his veins. His heart slams against his sternum, as a kaleidoscope of color and sound and so fucking _good_ surges through every part of him. His eyes roll back as he rides the wave of sensation that he'd chase anywhere.

"Hey, baby," Bella whispers beside him, slurring. "My turn, yeah?"

"Hm," is all he can say because his tongue is thick and his eyes don't seem to want to open.

He's not sure how long he's out, maybe minutes, maybe hours, but by the time he finally comes to, it's dark outside. Dim, orange-yellow light from the streetlight by the corner filters past the flimsy curtains, casting everything in shadow.

Cotton-mouthed and instantly jittery, Edward looks around the room. There are people here he doesn't know, a dirty apartment full of nameless faces, different yet the same, all here for one reason only. Some are passed out, white-faced and sweating; others are slack-eyed and swaying. When he looks to the left, a red-haired woman with sticks for arms straddles some guy on the couch. They're fucking, right there in the open room, like no one else can see. No one cares. Edward doesn't. It's not like he hasn't done the same.

Everywhere hurts when he tries to move. There's only one thing that he can do to make it all go away.

"Bella?" he whispers, turning to the girl curled up by his side. She's out cold, her hair tangled and wild, her face wane and too thin. He tries to remember what she looked like before, way back at Forks High, but it's been too long now. He doesn't know where the years have gone.

When she doesn't answer, he reaches inside her pocket. There's a little bit left. Just enough to stave off the fidgets. Just enough to get through the next few hours and help him forget that he now has nowhere else to go.

"_Where have you been?" _

"_Out."_

_His father's shoulders sag. "Out where?" _

"_None of your fucking business."_

"_It is my business," his father snaps. "You still live here, remember?"_

_Edward laughs a harsh laugh, full of spite. "Whatever."_

_Raking his fingers through graying hair, his father sighs and quietly asks, "Were you with Bella?" _

"_You know I was."_

"_Charlie said he hasn't seen her in a while. He's so worried." He pauses and shakes his head. "You two aren't healthy. You feed off of each other."_

_A spike of anger balls Edward's fists. Because Bella is out of bounds, none of anyone's business. "Fuck you."_

"_What the hell is the matter with you?" His father leans against the doorframe, blocking his entry. "Edward, what's happened to you? To you both? You used to not be like this." _

"_Look, Dad, I'm just… tired," Edward lies. _

"_Just tired? Yeah, right. You think I'm stupid? You're high."_

_Every bone in his body screams in protest when he straightens and shouts, "Shows what you know. No, I'm not high. That's the goddamned problem! I feel like shit, okay? So just leave me alone. It hurts. My whole fucking body hurts." Edward looks over his father's shoulder. The room behind him is bright and warm. Pictures line the walls. "Where's mom?"_

"_She's not giving you money, Edward. This has got to stop. We can't do this. I won't let your mother watch you kill yourself."_

_Panic and anger, that's what he feels. "So, what? What does that even mean?"_

"_You…" His father hesitates, his grip turning white around the edge of the door. His face falls before hardening again. "You need to leave."_

"_I will," Edward whines, that panic twisting his gut into something truly spectacular. "Just let me talk to Mom first."_

"_No, I mean leave right now. And don't come back unless you're clean. We're not helping you kill yourself anymore."_

_Edward's eyes widen. "You're kicking me out?"_

"_I don't have any other choice." His voice falters. "I love you, son."_

"_Fuck you," Edward spits, salt stinging his eyes. "I won't be back."_


	3. Chapter 3

In a small, sweet-smelling coffee shop, two old friends sit, their minds an hour down the road.

"Have you heard from them?" Charlie asks, brusquely pushing his sleeves up to his elbows.

Looking down at the steaming cup in his hand, Carlisle sighs. His hands are not what they used to be – a surgeon's hands. They're withering with age, and there's a slight tremble there that wasn't before. It's stress, the therapist says. No shit, he thinks.

"No," he finally whispers. "Not since… that day. I'm afraid he won't call even if he needs us. He's just too…"

"Stubborn," Charlie finishes. Like Carlisle's quivering hands, his old friend bears similar scars. There's more gray at Charlie's temples than there once was, and a deep crease splits his forehead in two.

"Have you…?"

Charlie sips his mug to buy some time. His Adam's apple bobs before he speaks. "No. Bella hasn't come home at all. I… shit… Her mom's a mess. We both are."

"How long since she called either of you?"

Without a moment's hesitation, he answers, "Two months and four days."

"How'd this happen, Charlie?" Carlisle breathes. It's an old conversation, one that they've had a half dozen times over the last few years. Yet he still can't reconcile the picture in his mind – two beautiful children, smiling and laughing on graduation day – with the reality of _now_. "They were such good kids. Top of their class."

Charlie's eyes drift to the window. His voice is tired just like his body. "I don't know. I never thought… not them anyway. I mean, I've seen tons of kids through the precinct – good kids, too… just somehow got wrapped up in it. But even still, it didn't even occur to me to worry about this kind of thing with my own."


	4. Chapter 4

An hour down the road, huddled against the side of a building, two young people sit, one holding an almost empty cup of fifty cent coffee.

"You're cold," Edward mutters, pulling his girl against his side. She's so thin that he can feel her ribs.

Bella looks up at him through bleary, bloodshot eyes. "I'm okay. Just…" A shudder rocks through her body. "Yeah, I'm cold. Do we have any more money?"

Fishing deep inside his pockets, Edward finds an almost empty wallet. Inside, there are a handful of small bills and a card that he refuses to look at. "A little. But… I don't know if we have… enough… if we pay James, too."

They're both at the bottom of the ride and they're both shaking from the drop. James is the one with the ticket back to the top. He has just what they need and he's never failed them.

It's hard though, because Edward can hear both of their stomachs rumbling. It's going to get cold tonight, too, and that ramshackle tenement where they stay hasn't seen heat in over a year. But still, he wants. He needs. He thinks he'll die if he doesn't get something in his veins.

He's forgotten what it was like before, or even who tried what first. A party habit – a fast way to relax and forget the pressure of that first semester – that somehow turned into this. At least they have each other.

"Edward…" Bella's voice is low and pained, and he knows what she's going to say. "I need it. We'll be fine once James gets here."


	5. Chapter 5

Three weeks later, in a quiet office in a nearby hospital, a cell phone rings, loud in the silence.

"Carlisle Cullen," he answers, aimlessly shuffling a stack of black and white charts. His voice is tired. _He_ is tired. Insomnia has stolen hours of his life. But he can't sleep, no matter how his eyes droop. When Carlisle closes his eyes at night, all he can see is the angry, hurt expression on his boy's face when he turned his back and closed the door, shutting him out of their lives.

"Dr. Cullen. So glad I could reach you. This is Eleazar Garcia from over at Cook County Regional."

Something in Dr. Garcia's tone sends a shiver down Carlisle's spine. This could be a simple transfer or a patient request, but he knows that it isn't. Premonition is an evil thing, and Carlisle's skin begins to crawl.

"What can I do for you, Dr. Garcia?" he breathes, life draining from his veins.

"I have a young man here… Your card was in his wallet. He shares your last name."

Squeezing the armrest, Carlisle swallows and his eyes screw shut, shuddering against the horror he's about to hear. "Edward. He's… my son. What's wrong?"

"We have him here for overnight observation. He came in a few hours ago in pretty rough shape, but he's… stable now. His license says he's over eighteen, so I can't discuss the details. Can you come here?"

Stable.

That's the only word that Carlisle hears. _Not dead_.

The left side of his chest pangs in warning, and a shot of numbness steals down his arm. Pausing to catch his breath, Carlisle pants, "I'll be there as soon as I can. Do whatever it takes to keep him… "

_Alive_, he wants to say, but he can't, because saying that word out loud carries with it the possibility of something else – of death. And Carlisle can't think about that right now.


	6. Chapter 6

In a small white room, a county and a half away, a heart monitor pings a slow, regular cadence.

When Edward opens his eyes, it's to blinding light and the sound of his father's voice.

"Son? Can you hear me?"

Soreness and fatigue prevents him from sitting, so he settles for lifting up on his elbows. "What are you doing here?"

"They called me. You…" his father chokes. Wetness gleams in his eyes, but doesn't fall.

Edward remembers the last thing he saw before the world went black, and his stomach lurches. "Bella?"

"Calm down." His father's hand covers his shoulder. "She's… just outside. Here."

He breathes a sigh of relief.

"She looks bad, Edward. She's looks like she's about to fall over. She needs help."

Edward ignores the obvious, because he knows his high school sweetheart is teetering so close to the edge. They both are. He stumbled over last night.

A minute passes by, the clock on the wall ticking loudly, a counter rhythm to the heart monitor beside the bed. Staring down at his pale white arms, Edward asks, "Why am I not shaking?"

Offering the smallest of smiles, his father runs a hand through his hair in debate. "Methadone," he finally answers

Another loud, ticking minute goes by before he asks again, "Why are you here?"

"Because I love you."

Pain and shame mingle together, forcing Edward's eyes to the window. "Did you tell Mom? Is she here, too? I want to see her."

"No," his father says, quietly, barely above a whisper. "She doesn't know. I didn't want her to have to see you like this."

Stunned and angry, Edward snaps, "You're not going to let me come home, are you? You're just going to let us live out there."

That water in his father's eyes threatens to brim over. "Please, son. Please get help. We'll send you to rehab. We'll pay for it. However long you need to be there. Just go."

"I don't need to. I'm fine," is his immediate answer.

What he needs is to get back to Bella. She needs him. She can't function out there without him. He doesn't want her to, and he definitely doesn't want her going back to the apartment without him.

At the same time, the moment he thinks of that filthy place where they sleep each night, his blood hums in anticipation. Whatever they've given him isn't enough. It's only enough to hold his body still. It does nothing for what's inside, that hole that needs to be filled.

"You're not fine," his father rasps. "Please, Edward."

"You should leave."


	7. Chapter 7

In a dimly lit restaurant by the lake, a man and woman share an expensive bottle of wine.

"Happy Birthday," Carlisle says, a soft smile curving his lips.

Esme looks up at him, her face drawn. She manages a tentative smile, too. But Carlisle knows that his wife's mind is somewhere else. It's where it always is.

"It's been so long," she finally breathes, closing her eyes, tilting her head up. "Three months, Carlisle. Three whole months and not a word."

"I know," he manages, reaching for his wife's hand across the table. Her skin is cold to the touch, yet she clutches him as if she'd collapse without him.

"I miss him." Shakily, she says what she says every single day. "I miss my son."

"I know."

Metal clangs against china, as her fork slips from her fingers, and his wife looks down at the pretty plate of fish and steak in front of her. Without question, Carlisle knows what she's thinking. That they're here, and he's out there.

"We made a mistake," she stutters.

Abandoning his own plate, he offers the same words he offers every day. "We had to. You know that. He was stealing. He was bringing that garbage in our home. He almost hit _you_ that day. He refused to go to rehab. We didn't have a choice. He's got to want it for himself. You know that."

"But it didn't work!" Esme cries. Dotting the plum silk of her blouse, tears streak down her cheeks and fall from her chin. "He's still out there. And we're here. _Here_, Carlisle. My boy is starving and high and God knows what else. It's not fair."

Fighting to hold himself together, Carlisle reminds her – reminds them both. "He has to hit rock bottom. He has to want-"

"Don't give me that shit!"

"Esme," he whispers. "I can't do this by myself."

"Find him, Carlisle," she sobs, her shoulders folding, uncaring of the tables nearby and the people who see her break. "Bring him home."

"You know we can't."


	8. Chapter 8

On a rickety bench in the middle of a park at dawn, a young man holds a sick girl's head in his lap.

"Baby?" Edward whispers, his voice soft but desperate. "Bella? Please answer me. Are you okay? Say something to me."

His vision is blurry, his head a throbbing mess, but even dazed and dizzy, he knows this is bad. Her breathing is too shallow, her whole body is trembling, and when she coughs, he hears the rattle of phlegm. Bella is burning up, too, even though it's hovering around freezing.

Whatever they shot last night… something is wrong. Edward is scared shitless that she's going to die on him. And that's not allowed. They go together or not at all. She made him promise that after that trip to the hospital.

She needs a doctor and she needs to eat, but they don't have any money left. And they can't go back to the apartment anymore, because they already owe James too much. He'll offer something worse – to let Bella pay it off – and Edward can't stomach that, no matter how much his body twitches and crawls.

"I want to go home, Edward," she whispers back. Tears fall like rain. "I want my Dad. I don't want to do this anymore."


	9. Chapter 9

At six thirty-five, right before a dinner of potatoes and lamb, there is a quiet knock on a bright red door.

When the door swings wide, Carlisle's heart knocks, and a harsh breath escapes his lungs.

"Dad."

His boy is so thin, a six foot tall mass of skin and bones. There's no way that he weighs more than one-fifty. He's dirty, smudged, and there's no mistaking the stench of sweat and the streets on his clothes. Edward's skin is sallow and his face is haggard, and purple-gray shadows circle eyes that were once so bright, but are now nearly dead.

Every bone in Carlisle's body aches to scoop him up and to pull his only son inside, to ease the pain that's etched in those downcast eyes. He wants. So much. He would give his soul if it would make his boy whole once more.

Forever seems to pass before either speaks. Carlisle clears his throat. "Edward. Why are you–"

"Help me." Haunted eyes stare back at him, and Carlisle's heart shatters into a million pieces. "Please, Dad. I'll go."


	10. Chapter 10

Sprawled out on a dark leather sofa, a young man stares out of a window, watching a flurry of white.

"Edward," Dr. Gerandy says. "How are things today?"

"Fine," is his automatic response.

"You missed group."

Disinterested and exhausted, Edward's shoulders lift and fall. He doesn't want to have this conversation. He doesn't want to have any conversation. "I didn't feel like going."

Calm as a glassy lake, the psychiatrist looks over his lenses and tilts his head. "Why's that?"

Shrugging again, Edward mutters, "It's stupid."

"How so?" Dr. Gerandy asks, crossing his ankle across the opposite knee. He's heard it all, a hundred times over.

"It just is. Some of those people are idiots."

There's a girl with spiky black hair that talks and talks and talks. Like him, she has someone on the outside waiting. But unlike him, her significant other – some guy named Jasper – is clean and sober. She's here for 'maintenance', as she calls it. Whatever that means. But he's tired of hearing about how they're going to get married and how her life is going to be peachy keen.

The doctor surprises him with a jarring shift. "Edward, why did you start using?"

His shoulders tense. "What?"

"Why did you start using?" Dr. Gerandy repeats. "You've been here long enough to start talking about the whys not just the whats and hows."

Outside, the snow whips into a soft white frenzy. "I just did."

"What about your parents?"

Edward's head spins and he stares. "What about them?"

Taking off his lenses, Dr. Gerandy offers, "Abuse?"

A wave of hot indignation sweeps through his body. "Fuck no."

"Okay…"

"I was just… " Edward sighs, thinking back, trying to piece through the years. "Tired, I guess."

Scribbling on a yellow pad, Dr. Gerandy probes, "Tired? How so?"

"Of everything." This conversation feels intrusive, although Edward can't pinpoint why. Maybe it's because he's not even sure of the answers himself, he thinks. "I guess… I was worried about some of my classes. It just… I don't know. It wasn't like high school, you know? Things weren't clicking for me. There were so many people. And…"

"So pressure?" the man across from him taps his pen. "Did you feel like you had to do well?"

"Yeah," Edward mumbles. "Maybe. It was just kind of… I don't know, expected. My dad's a doctor. I was supposed to be one, too. I just wanted to let off some steam. It helped me… I didn't think about all that shit when I was high."

"Did your girlfriend start with you?"

Wincing, Edward pictures Bella's gaunt face when they said their goodbyes. She was crying and he was, too. "Yeah. No, that's wrong. I started it all. She was mad at me for that. At first. But then… she tried. Just a little. She hated the needles, though. Always. Sometimes I had to help her find a vein."

The doctor's face is impassive, betraying neither support nor condemnation. "And you both used together?"

"Yeah. With other people sometimes, too." Edward hesitates. "But most of the time, just us. It was our thing."

"Why do you think Bella kept up?"

"Her mom and dad were splitting up, I think. It was stressing her out," Edward muses, wondering how much of it was all his fault. "Then it just… took over. She spiraled faster than me."

Their eyes meet once more when Edward asks, "When do I get to see her?"

Flipping the yellow pad closed, Dr. Gerandy softly asks, "Do you think that's a good idea? Can you two be healthy together?"

The idea that he thinks they should stay apart makes Edward instantly angry, and his kunckles curl around the cushion beneath him. "Whatever. When can I see her?" he asks again.

"At the end of treatment. If you both still want to. You should know that a lot of–"

"I'll always want her. No matter what."


	11. Chapter 11

Gathered around a square mahogany table in the center of a tasteful living space, three people struggle with what to do.

"When is the last time you heard from her, Charlie?" his wife asks. Her frail fingers squeeze Carlisle's hand, her nails digging into his palm.

His old friend's eyes are dark, like he hasn't slept for a week. "Three days ago."

Carlisle pours him two fingers of whisky, something to ease the tension. "Do you know where she is?"

"Where's Edward?"

"I don't know," Carlisle sighs before taking a swig of his own. "I can guess."

"I thought this was going to work," Esme whispers. "This was supposed to fix things. They were going to get better!"

Charlie huffs and drags his fingers across the top of his thigh. "Me too. I just don't understand it. Why did your son leave treatment?"

"Dr. Gerandy recommended that Edward stay another thirty days." Carlisle remembers that day oh-so-well. Edward had been furious on the phone, clipped and short, cursing up a storm.

"He wasn't participating enough. His heart wasn't in it. Dr. Gerandy was worried he'd relapse, that he was there for the wrong reasons."

Across the room, Charlie's head hangs low because he heard the same.

"Edward refused to stay, said he'd be fine and checked himself out last week."

"I don't understand it," his wife cries, and her frustration is like a sentient being of its own, filling the room. "He's not fine, though. He's disappeared again."

Carlisle pulls her close against his side, stroking her cheek to calm her down. To calm them both. "I know. God, I know it." He's never felt this much a failure in all his life. "But what can we do?"

"I can't go through this again." His wife crumples into his chest, defeated and forlorn. "Why? We've done all the things we're supposed to do. But it's not enough, is it? It's never going to end. Not until one of both of them are dead."

Every muscle locks, shying away from what he knows is possible. What might be probable. Parents shouldn't live beyond their offspring. It's wrong. It's against the rules, he thinks.

His eyes meet those of his old friend's. They're as bleak as night. "I don't know."


	12. Chapter 12

Three floors above the street, lounging on a half-made bed, a young man and his girl watch images flicker across a fuzzy screen.

Bella curls into his side, resting her head against his chest. "I missed you," she breathes, fanning his neck with warm, sweet air. "I hated not being with you."

Smiling and leaning down to kiss her hair, Edward murmurs, "I know, sweetheart. I couldn't stand not seeing you."

She takes a deep breath and grips his shirt. "I was afraid."

"Of what?"

"That you wouldn't want me… You know, after we–"

"Never." His answer is swift and concrete, coupled with a tight squeeze of his arm, because there is no question whatsoever in his mind. They've not said any vows, but he's known since he was eighteen that she was it, through sickness and health, til death do they part.

"Edward?"

Kissing her again, this time on the lips, he smiles. "Yeah."

"Do you still…" His girl pauses. "You know… think."

He swallows because of course he does. "About it?" he finishes.

"Yes."

It's the first time they've addressed the elephant in the room and it feels dangerous, like he's juggling a ticking bomb. "Honest?"

He feels her nod, slowly, hesitantly, and he wants more than anything to tell her no. He wants to be strong and sure. But he's not. Despite what he told the good doctor, as well as his father, he's as fragile as they come. Swallowing again, Edward stammers, "All the time."

Bella's whole frame tenses and she squeezes his middle. "Me too," she finally replies. Her voice is just as soft, just as shaky, just as terrified as his. "That scares me."

"You're afraid that we can't do this?" By this, he means: get a job, make enough to eat, stay clean. It's hard when he can feel the subtle vibration in his bones, the mental tug to alleviate the tension.

"Yeah." She squeezes again, burying her face in his shirt. Even muffled, he hears the shame that riddles her voice. "Because right now, all I can think about is calling James."

Edward closes his eyes. "I know, baby." Gently, he brushes back her hair. "We'll be strong. We don't need that shit anymore."

"Don't let me slip." And it's a plea, not a command.

When she looks up at him, he smiles. "If you slip, I slip. Remember? No matter what, we're together. I won't be away from you again."


	13. Chapter 13

Three months later, in the pretty green suburbs of Chicago, a car door closes outside an elegant two-story home.

Through the front bay window, Carlisle catches a glimpse of black and white, a bar of blue across the top.

Time as he knows it stands still when the doorbell chimes, bright and cheery, echoing down the hall.

"Carlisle? Can you get that?" his wife calls from the kitchen. When he breathes in, instead of pot roast and rosemary, he smells the sharpness of fear. His own.

When he cracks open the door, bile rises in the back of his throat.

"Carlisle?" Esme calls again. "Who is it?"

"I got it," he manages, his whole frame shaking as his eyes center on a star of gold. "Don't worry about it."

"Dr. Cullen?" a soft baritone intrudes. Carlisle's eyes travel north, meeting an expression he knows all too well. It's the same one he's sometimes forced to wear some days at the hospital.

"Yes," he finally answers, his head shaking, his blood pounding in his ears, because he knows. He knows, and it's like his mind is coming unglued.

"May I come in?"

"What's this about?" Salt pricks his eyes and his mouth goes dry. Breathless, he forces out, "Is it my son? Is it Edward?"

"Sir, can we talk inside?"

"Tell me," Carlisle whispers, as his knees buckle beneath a strain he could have never imagined. A thousand thoughts churn and eddy, a thousand regrets, a thousand nights of tears and anger and the worst misery a parent can know.

"Dr. Cullen, I'm sorry to have to tell you this…" The man's voice fades in and out. "… was with his girlfriend… been clean for a while… one-time thing, it looked like… couldn't do anything… both gone before we could get them… I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. They both looked like good kids."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Sorry if you hate the way I left this. Feel free to rail on me. There are many, many people who do succeed in addiction recovery. But this is how it played in my head from the start, and it's a scene that happens far too often. And sometimes all it takes is one relapse, one hit, one shot, one whatever. It's scary how so many young people (and old) wind up in situations much like what you've read. Bad kids, good kids, bad parents, good parents, this stuff affects everyone.

Thanks for reading.


End file.
